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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867359">Deleted Scenes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/struwwel/pseuds/struwwel'>struwwel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ohne Dich Universe [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rammstein</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1989, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Flashback, Friendship, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Mild Blood, Pining, Political Unrest, Seperation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:49:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,297</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/struwwel/pseuds/struwwel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of deleted scenes, flashbacks and glances into the future set in and around Mit Dir Bin Ich Auch Allein.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ohne Dich Universe [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837252</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. You were caught in the crossfire of childhood and stardom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All people mentioned except Till and young Richard are entirely fictional plot devices.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Late October, 1989</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">///</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Scholle made it.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till looked up from the willows he was sorting by lengths and thickness into water basins. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore, it was cold already today. He had considered warming up the water first, but then dismissed it as too much work. He would let the branches sit over night anyway so they would turn soft, and as for his hands, they were half ruined already anyway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«How do you know?» He asked suspiciously, not quite ready yet to feel happy for his friend. There was an endless string of rumors as it were.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gert shrugged off his weathered jacked and fell into Till’s weathered leather couch. </span>
</p><p class="p2">«Alex was over there. He met with Pedder, and apparently he’s met him.»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till was still sceptical. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Alex?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Alex, the writer.» Gert wriggled around to fish a lighter out of his skin tight jeans and lit a cigarette. Normally, Till would have asked him not to. Not that he minded people smoking, that would be hypocritical, but he did work with wood after all. The floor of his workshop was covered with sawdust.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Today, he didn’t feel like reprimanding Gert like a damn teacher. In fact, he didn’t feel particularly like expanding energy to anything.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Oh, he can go? I didn’t know that.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In fairness, that was no wonder, honestly, because Till wasn’t really interested in anything that happened across the wall. Least of all to literary people. As far as he was concerned, people leaving or even justspending alot of time there, were simply ... lost. Not lost in a «I won’t see them ever again» sort of way, nor in a «they’re a nut case, lost their path» sort of way. No, they just kinda ... stopped existing. Lost any relevance to his reality. As if the west was some sort of quicksand, that just swallowed people and did not let them go again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At least it used to be that way.</span>
</p><p class="p2">«He can. Some representative bullshit. Never liked the guy. Anyway. He met Pedder. Remember him?»</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till nodded and pretended to turn his attention back to his willows. He didn’t care about careerist writers, or defecting screamers. Pedder was one of those people that had yelled loudest for change, and did least to change anything and Till barely knew him. He’d left months ago. He wasn’t missed much.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I do remember him. Unfortunately.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«I agree,» Gert said and snipped cigarette ashes on the floor. Till winced, but didn’t say anything.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«But appearantly, Pedder met Scholle. On some gig, because where else. Philipp Boa. Heard of it?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«No.» Till shook his head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Me neither. Some weird independent stuff, says Alex.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Alex doesn’t know shit,» Till alleged, mostly out of spite. There was a small spark of excitement at the thought of his friend watching west shows the way he had always wanted to. It died as quickly as it had come and left a bitter note of missing out behind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«In any case, they talked some and Scholle told him to send the word. He got there a week ago or so.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till just nodded and bowed his head over the willows without really seeing them. He waited for the expected relief. It didn’t come.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Anyway, I thought you’d want to know,» Gert said casually. If he’d paied any attention, Till would have caught the curious, slightly too considerate note in his friends voice. He didn’t though.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«Eh. Yeah. I did. Thanks.»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«So, can I borrow that buzzsaw we talked about?» Gert got up from the couch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«By the slicer,» Till said absent mindedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gert put his cigarette losely between his lips and straightened his always crooked glasses before he clapped Till’s back and left him behind, grunting under the weight of the saw.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«See you saturday?»</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">«... sure.» Till replied when Gert was already long since out the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scholle made it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till wondered if he’d still use that name. He’d always hated it. Maybe he was just going by Sven again now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For days, he’d agonized about him in private. There was no real reason why this one would be different. The never ending stream of people leaving had lost any sense of novelty weeks ago. After months, it had become too tedious to feel anything but faint annoyance at each new person who vanished over night, with nothing but a sketchy, cryptic note pinned to a windowframe. Scholle was just the latest one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Should</em> have been just the latest one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And still. This time, Till had worried. Had stressed. Had tried to catch any glimpse of gossip or news he could find, passed up through the music scene’s grapevine. He’d rooted for him to make it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till thought it was because Scholle had such a penchant for getting into serious trouble. The kind of guy with the tough luck to actually get shot. Because he had left for better reasons than most. Because he left nothing behind that would really miss him, the eternal misfit that he was. Till had been so sure that once he had gotten the news, he could forget about it, could let the worry go, let the man with the pixie smile and the eyes shadowed by a constant frown slip into the quicksand too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead he just felt sad for himself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till left the workshop without cleaning up. He poured himself a triple Korn in his unlit kitchen, homebrewed by the old cartwright he’d apprenticed with for a while. It could probably kill a horse, which seemed just about right for the moment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He downed it fast enough to make his head feel light and to turn his vision blurry with wet spots of swirled color and then he went to bed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On the upside down beercrate he used as a night stand was a misplaced tape. It’s label still claimed it as a children’s fairytale reading, but the liner was a hastily cut and folded piece of red paper filled with maticilous notes in oddly feminine handwriting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">According to the notes, Side A now contained the full length of Pink Floyd’s Shine On You Crazy Diamond. The quality of the recording fluctuated between the different parts, because the author of the tape had pieced it together from different sources when he’d recorded it over the retelling of Grimm’s Red Riding Hood. He’d written down every single one of them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till turned the tape between his numb and icy fingers for a while before he stuck it into the casette player.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pressed play and bawled his eyes out for the entire 26 minutes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">///</span>
</p>
<p></p><div class="ujudUb">
  <p>
    <em>Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun</em><br/>
<em>Shine on you crazy diamond</em><br/>
<em>Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky</em><br/>
<em>Shine on you crazy diamond</em><br/>
<em>You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom</em><br/>
<em>Blown on the steel breeze</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="ujudUb">
  <p>
    <em>Come on you target for faraway laughter</em><br/>
<em>Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine</em>
  </p>
</div><p class="p1">
  <strong>Pink Floyd, Shine on you crazy diamond</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Insatiable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>100% domestic fluff, and I couldn’t resist the donut trope. Warning for just a little but of blood.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, this is set right after the last (well, it will be the second to last) chapter of Mit Dir Bin Ich Auch Allein, directly (as in right after) after they have sex in the bathroom. You don’t have to read the story to read this because there is zero plot, but it’s probably a bit more satisfying if you do. I wrote the biggest chunks of this before finishing that chapter, but then decided it would destroy the overall arch plus it really is very much only them being too in love, so.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Spring 2005, New York</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">///</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My leg’s falling asleep,” Till murmured into Richard’s ear, and gently nudged his shoulder. It was getting cold on the floor and the world didn’t spin quite as fast anymore, but Richard was comfortable down here. He breathed in the scent of his own shower gel on Till’s clean skin, mixed with the musky reminder of what they had just done and wasn’t sure he really cared about how Till’s leg was doing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hnngh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till grunted in response. “Come on,” he said with a bit more determination and shoved. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re getting up now.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I really don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, you have to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The vertigo came back when Till picked him up and pulled him to his feet and almost blacked out his vision. Richard squeezed his eyes shut and swayed slightly, until warm hands grabbed his shoulders and pressed. The world steadied.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Circulation problems? You’re getting old.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off.” <br/></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till laughed, sudden and loud, and happy. He ruffled his hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You need something sugery.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I don’t have anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till hugged him tightly and started walking him backwards towards the living room.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gross oversight. What if I want something sweet? Which I do, by the way.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My house is not a candy story.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till hummed and changed direction, slowly waddling them into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But I am your guest. What about hospitality?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m very hospitable.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I disagree. What hospitable place doesn’t have candy?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">One where the owner has to look after his waistline.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are gonna bludgeon me into making something, aren’t you,” Richard said with a sigh and regretfully separated from his sweet toothed guest to throw an exasperated glance around his kitchen. He was too tired, but he also felt his resolve melting fast. Till’s silly pretend innocence was too endearing, too familiar and too nostalgic to leave him cold.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think you should make donuts,” Till said, predictably and doe eyed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard should have seen it coming at the first mention of sugar, really.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh no.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard had to smile, and shook his head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine. For old times sake.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">—-</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The howling buzz of the mixer made Till wince.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sat on top of Richard’s countertop in fresh boxers and a band shirt some fan had given him in the hope that he would wear it. The name was unreadable. He was perched right next to him, his thigh pressing into Richard’s side, and watched him mix yeast dough. Like old times ... but not.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Back then, he’d tried to replicate the first donuts they had in the states, back when Rammstein had not even been an idea. Overwhelmed with the size and the scope and the myriads of choices, those things seemed simple enough, a warm sugar rush to keep them going that they bought on the side of the road while trying to comprehend the enormous distances spanning this endless country.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On that first trip, America had turned from a distant fantasy packed full of imagined wonders into a tangible dream in Richards mind. When they’d gotten home, Richard had talked about a city that never slept, a place where self sufficiency was being rewarded and the feeling of buzzing energy, of just doing things rather than theorizing about them. Till had talked about the endless horizons, about white line fever and red rocks under a setting sun - and donuts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard had tried to make them on the half broken stove in their shared squat - behind boarded windows they couldn’t open to let out the frying fat filled air. He’d made what in theory should have been just a variant of whatever it was that Berliners were, but had never truly captured the rich softness of the original. He had gotten better over time, but he’d never quite dared to make the dough exactly as sticky and soft as it needed to be. He’d fried them too hot and the rare recipes he had found had failed to explain the exact ratio of baking powder inherent to the self raising flour that was a pantry staple in the US and unavailable in Berlin. Till had loved them anyway, and Richard had loved making him smile, flattered that he had a friend asking him for food. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Today, they would be perfect, melt-in-your-mouth perfect, and hopefully perfect enough to replicate that blissfully satisfied grin on Till’s face from back in the day. Better they might have become, but he had better competition too: the Till of today could walk down the street and buy the original at every corner.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not quite the same,” Richard said somewhat sadly, and gestured at his kitchen. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No circuit breaker failing when you turn on the second plate.” He greased a glass bowl with a coating of oil and carefully lowered his kneaded dough into it. It clung to his fingers and he struggled to unstick himself as gracefully as possible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But we’re together.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes ... This has to rest for a while now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till cocked his head and watched him for a moment while he washed his hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come here,” he said, and opened his legs so Richard could step between them and pulled him close by the lapels of the too big flannel shirt Richard had stolen out of his suitcase.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t believe I got you to do this. Back in the days you made me scrub the toilet, bring out the trash, and beg you on my knees before you would even consider it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard shrugged and thought back to young man he’d been 14 years ago. A boy really, who’d searched for love and recognition so desperately between music, anger and amphetamines.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I liked making them for you then too, but I didn’t want to admit that. I wanted to be cool.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You were.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard snorted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>You</em> were cool. Everyone thought so. Everyone was scared of you. I wanted to be like you so damn bad.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till put both hands at the sides of Richard’s neck and pulled him even closer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, <em>I</em> wanted to be like you.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">Interesting.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What was I like?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ambitious. Talented. Too damn honest. <em>God</em>, you pissed people of. You only you got away with it half the time because you were so outrageously pretty.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard grimaced sarcastically. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Were</em>, past tense, huh”. He tried to make it sound like joke, but Till knew him to well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve grown beautiful instead.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard’s eyes flickered to Till’s lips, so close to him and saying such sweet things to him with such a genuine sounding voice. And yet ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not really sure I understand what you see in me, still.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till let his hands drop from his neck down to his shoulders and caressed his arms until he took his hands. There was something dark and velvety in his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t have to. I don’t understand what you see in me, either.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard opened his mouth to rattle off an entire list of things he saw, but then realized Till wouldn’t believe a single word. Maybe that was the point.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ok,” he said instead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till brought up their entwined hands and critically studied the bandaid on his left hand. It had turned ugly and disgusting, coming loose after the shower, the dough, and washing it off again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How bad is it?” he asked, and let his right hand go to start and carefully nibble it off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s just a little cut.” The shame over the evidence of his despair hit him like a hot blow to the face and he tried to pull his hand away. Till held on, unimpressed. Richard took a deep breath. Ok. This was ok.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till winced as he got to the part where the bandaid was stuck to his finger not with glue but with a speck of crusted blood. Richard didn’t even feel it. His hand felt secure and warm between Till’s palm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not dying. Just rip it off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till shook his head and let go of his hand with an embarrassed smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t do that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Coward,” Richard said, and did it himself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Ouch</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It stung worse than he had expected, and almost immediately a small drop of blood was beading up. Till looked like he’d cut a major artery.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“See? You should have soaked it,” he said reproachfully, and took the hand back to inspect it from all sides. “We have to clean it up, it could get infected.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you serious?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard left his spot between Till’s legs shaking his head in exasperation. It was adorable, yes, but also slightly unnerving to have the same guy who would march on through actually dangerous injuries, come hell or high water, fuss over a little glass cut. It embarrassed him, the heat it caused in his stomach was distracting him, from what he couldn’t even say. He turned on the tap and washed away the trickle of blood and started rubbing away the remaining glue from the band aid impatiently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hell, Scholle, <em>careful</em>!!” Till snapped and left his spot on the counter with a little jump and grabbed at his hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was good, but also so outlandishly weird to be fussed over and taken care of. It made Richard’s knees wobble a little, and the dizziness returned, the world slowing down. Till put a small drop of oil on his finger, careful to avoid the cut, and gently massaged his finger until all the sticky stuff was dissolved. Then he washed it out once more and turned the water off. It grew quiet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I <em>know</em> I’m being silly. It just hurts to see you hurt,” Till said quietly, and turned his hand over between his palms. It was still bleeding slightly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Richard swallowed and decided what the hell.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You could kiss it better?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till’s eyes darted up at his face and he stared, lips slightly parted. Then he bowed back over his hand, brought it up to his face. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “infection risk,” but then kissed it, gentle and sweet and then with a slow motion lick catching the remaining blood. Richard felt shaken. It didn’t hurt, but the spot was so sensitive, Richard felt that lick deep down to his core. He couldn’t hold back a gasp.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till dropped one arm to Richard’s waist and brought him close, without letting go of his hand. Then he did it again. And again. Until it stopped bleeding.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How long does it need to rest?” he asked quietly, without meeting his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Huh?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dough?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">Right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Eh. 30 minutes? 40? The longer, the better ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till leaned his cheek against his face. Richard could feel his breath picking up speed, could feel him get hard against his hip. It made his whole body burn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re insatiable ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” Till murmured, and loosened his grip. “I just like you so much ... I like how you feel, how you smell ... your skin. You’re so beautiful.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Stop,” Richard said. He was on fire. </span>“... don’t be like this or I’m gonna pass out.” He shifted his stance, let Till feel how much he wanted him in return, searched for stability.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll catch you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Till turned his face, brushed his lips against Richard’s cheekbone. He turned his head, hoping he’d return to the same spot, and closed his eyes. A moment later, Till’s lips were there, just barely touching him, then they were gone. He just about managed to not whine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love you,” Till said. Richard wanted to reply, say it back, tell him a million sweet things about how he was beautiful too, and how he missed him even when he was <em>right there</em>, how he liked his skin and his warmth and his strength, but he never got around to that. Anything he could have said was wiped up by Till’s tongue licking into him the second he opened his mouth. It felt so soft too, the lazy, intimate slickness of it making him think of the way Till sometimes let him fuck him with nothing but spit and patience and <em>love</em>. It made his heart clench and his stomach feel soft, and he wondered for a heartbeat how it would be like, how it would feel like to open up his entire body to this man and let him in in return, as deeply as he could. He wondered if Till would have him that way, and didn’t dare ask, because the thought was already enough to send him spinning again. Spinning, like Till’s tongue twisting in his mouth send him spinning too, and even if he’d had the courage to ask, he didn’t have the air. It was as scorching hot and melting soft as he hoped his donuts would be, and maybe they were both insatiable, and in that case he could always ask later.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Pink Floyd wrote Shine on you crazy diamond about their founding member Syd Barrett. They kicked him out of the band because his drug use and mental illness made it impossible to work with him, but they still very much cared and worried about him. It’s one of those pieces that never fails to make me teary eyed.</p><p>I recently read an interview where Richard mentions that piece, which came out of the blue to me, and I immediately wanted to write about it. I wrote some parts of this weeks ago and that was the missing piece of the puzzle I needed.</p><p>https://youtu.be/cWGE9Gi0bB0</p></blockquote></div></div>
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